


Late Nights

by iblamethisonSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iblamethisonSherlock/pseuds/iblamethisonSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was both a good and bad thing that Molly Hooper was still awake and in her kitchen when Sherlock Holmes showed up at her window. Good, because she heard him before he could jimmy her window (again), avoiding the possibility of a cricket bat to his head; bad, because he happened to catch her dancing around the kitchen with her cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seasalticecream32](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasalticecream32/gifts).



> First of all, many, many thanks to seasalticecream32 for her help, encouragement, betaing, and talking me down over text message when I was completely flipping out over the fact that Sherlock was being a smug little shit who refused to do what I wanted him to! And also to vonPeeps! 
> 
> Disclaimer: All rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, ACD, et al.

It was both a good and bad thing that Molly Hooper was still awake and in her kitchen when Sherlock Holmes showed up at her window. Good, because she heard him before he could jimmy her window (again), avoiding the possibility of a cricket bat to his head; bad, because he happened to catch her dancing around the kitchen with her cat. 

_Oh well_ , she sighed to herself, _its not like it’s the first time I've done anything weird in front of him_. Besides, he'd probably already deduced it from the color socks she wore, or something. She turned to the window and helped pull a drenched Sherlock through. “You’re soaking wet!” she exclaimed.

“I’d noticed,” he replied, taking off his coat. Molly draped it over a nearby radiator. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to entirely miss the point.

“Yes, well, I meant something more like **why** are you soaking wet?’ Also, you’re freezing!”

“Downpour?” he offered

“From your own personal raincloud?” Molly shot back.

Occupied trying to get his squelching shoes unlaced, he shrugged, and said, “Did you know they keep the fountains in the Italian Gardens open all year?”

Molly gaped at him for a second, then her mouth quirked up. “Did you wake up with a stabbed guy next to you?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, his nose crinkling adorably. “I didn’t pass out.”

“Never mind, it’s from a movie.” Molly shook her head. “My God, there are ice crystals in your hair. Go, go get a hot shower now. Or a bath. Whichever. Just go get warmed up.”

He headed down the hallway, removing his suit jacket as he went. _This wasn’t quite the way i’d imagined Sherlock Holmes leaving a trail of clothes through my flat, but oh well._ She stopped herself from admiring the way he looked in his wet dress shirt as he slipped through the bathroom door. _Quit it Hooper_ , she admonished herself. _He's half frozen_. Besides, she **liked** being his friend, had told herself long ago to stop hoping for anything else.

 

As she headed down the hall to try to find something that would even remotely fit Sherlock, Molly heard the shower running. After finding some pajama bottoms that her brother had left behind by mistake on his last visit and an old concert T-shirt that was so big that she usually only wore it as a nightshirt, she passed the bathroom door again and asked, “Sherlock could you say something? Just talk so I know you haven't passed out.”

“Why do you keep thinking I’ll pass out?” Sherlock said, in a tone somewhere between confusion and outrage.

“I don’t know—nearly freezing tends to take a lot out of people”, Molly returned.

“Well, I'm talking to you now, so obviously i’m fine, Molly”

“Right. I’m just going to leave these by the door then.”

 

When Sherlock emerged, it was to find Molly making tea, and a warm blanket sitting on the couch. He rolled his eyes, “I’m not your old gran, you know.”

“Of course not. My gran is dead.” At Sherlock’s dark look and raised eyebrow, she said, “Right. Anyway, even you need to maintain a reasonable body temperature.”

Giving in with only somewhat poor grace, Sherlock sat down at least next to the blanket and accepted his cup of tea. “Thank you,” he said after a minute of thought. After that, he steepled his fingers and seemingly disappeared into his mind palace, so Molly turned on the telly. Not finding much to interest her, she left it on for the comforting background noise and picked up a book. A little while later, Molly looked over and was unsurprised to find Sherlock had curled up on her couch with the blanket around him.

 

After what Sherlock soon estimated was an hour and a half, he blinked awake and looked around somewhat sleepily. _Right. Molly Hooper’s flat_ , he thought. And there was Molly in the chair catercorner to him reading a book—or trying to—as she fought to keep her eyes open. “Molly,” he said in a much softer voice than usual, “why didn’t you go to bed?”

“Not really tired.” Molly lied.

“Molly,” he warned.

“Yes, okay, have you _heard_ of secondary drowning?’

He scoffed. “And exactly how many cases of that have you seen in your career?”

“I’ve never seen a case of Ebola either, but i know it exists,” she retorted.

He tried to hide a smirk at her odd sense of humor. Only Molly would bring up Ebola in casual conversation. Well, somewhat casual. “Were you just planning on staying awake to listen to my breathing all night?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” It slips out without her thinking, she’s so tired. Sherlock was sure his expression said the equivalent of what would be, “Wait, what?” on any other man.

She sighed. “When we were both little, my brother Mark had asthma pretty bad. Not enough to be hospitalized or anything, but he’d be coughing and wheezing all night. I tended to have ‘nightmares’ and need to sleep on his beanbag chair those nights,” Molly said with a slightly rueful yet fond smile.

He can hear the quotes around the word “nightmare.” Interesting, he hadn’t known that about her. Well, he’d known about the brother of course—currently living in Cardiff—but he hadn’t deduced any kind of health problems. _Molly Hooper, you continue to surprise me_ , he thought. Though this new information, along with the fact that he was sitting on her couch tonight, was just yet more proof of her caring nature. Sitting on her couch, wrapped in what he had just realized was the warmer blanket from her bed, in fact. _I guess she’s determined about staying awake then_. So he said, “Well, if we’re both staying up, you might as well sit on the couch so you can see the telly properly.” After giving him a searching look, Molly moved over next to him on the couch and flipped through the channels until she settled on an episode of Doctor Who. Sherlock restrained himself (mostly) from commenting on the absurdity of the programme, and actually found himself caught up in it. Historically inaccurate pirates were still pirates, after all. Turning to her to comment on this to her, he realized Molly had dozed off, and was resting her head on his shoulder. He carefully adjusted the blanket to cover both of them, so as not to wake her, and laid his own head on hers.


End file.
